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Swirling reds.
Puddles and pools.
Blood red.
Shimmering and rolling, spinning around him.
And behind the angry spills of color, Dave’s scream, a hideous animal wail.
Of horror.
Of anger.
The scream refused to fade.
The red pools refused to disappear.
The scream continued to echo until it was replaced by new sounds.
A rumble at first.
Thunder?
No. Too close to be thunder.
And too human.
Footsteps, Dave realized.
The rumble and creak of footsteps on the stairs.
Heavy footsteps, moving closer. Rapidly moving closer.
The two officers ran up the stairs and burst into the hallway.
One of them reached for the light switch. The overhead light clicked on, a white sunburst, an explosion of light.
“Hey, you—!”
The two officers moved quickly across the landing. One of them reached for his pistol.
“Drop it!” the other one yelled to Dave.
Dave stared at the blood-covered letter opener gripped so tightly in his hand.
The red flowing onto the silver.
“Drop it! Now!” the policeman barked.
Dave leaned over the girl. He stared at the bloody wound in her side. Stared at the puddle of blood at his feet.
Erica.
The girl was Erica.
He huddled over Erica, staring at the stab wound.
The blood red swirls floated angrily in Dave’s eyes. Blinding him.
Suffocating him.
So much blood.
Poor Erica.
Such a big, red wound. And so much blood.
Puddles and pools.
Such an angry, angry red.
Why was Erica here?
Why were the police here?
Why wouldn’t the red pools go away?
Dave whirled around. He started to stand up.
“Stop right there, son,” the officer said, tensing the arm that held the pistol aimed at Dave. “Drop the knife and don’t move. You’re in a lot of trouble.”
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| Chapter 18 | | | MELISSA’S TURN |